


heart to heart and hand in hand

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - John Reese Lives, Alternate Universe - Root Lives, Canon? Fuck canon., Christmas Dinner, Christmas Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Episode: s05e13 Return 0
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28301289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: They've been through so much, and they are healing. A messy kitchen and a ruined meal seem insignificant in comparison to all of that.A post-Samaritan Christmas for Team Machine. Dinner is a mess, but Harold has a Plan™. Everybody's wounded, but they're happy. And Harold's daughter decides to try out her old matchmaking algorithm again, but doesn't need to try very hard. Dadmin just needs a little nudge.
Relationships: Background Root/Sameen Shaw, Harold Finch & The Machine, Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 5
Kudos: 64





	heart to heart and hand in hand

**Author's Note:**

> Title from one of the songs from How the Grinch Stole Christmas
> 
> Has this been almost-but-not-quite-finished and gathering dust in my WIP folder since around last Christmas? Mayyyyyybe...

"Okay, maybe it's just me," Fusco says, as he and Harold survey the wreck that was once the new safehouse's kitchen, "but I think having a homemade Christmas dinner when the only one of us who's any good at cooking is still laid up with a bunch of bullet holes in him was a pretty bad move."

"I quite—" Harold breaks off with a cough. The smoke has almost cleared, but is not completely gone—and, oh, coughing is _horrendous_ with a gunshot wound of his own to deal with. He presses a hand to his abdomen, wishing he had a mostly useless pillow to hold against it, until the coughing fit dies away. Now if the feeling that his insides were about to burst out of him would just disappear as well...

"Uh, you okay, Glasses?"

Harold manages a nod, though "okay" is very much a lie, and he clears his throat. "I quite agree, Detective," he rasps, and clears his throat again. Goodness. "However, Ms. Grov— _Root_ insisted that this was the only proper way to do it." One day, he will get used to calling her Root. One day. "I didn't have the heart to suggest otherwise, and I don't think Ms. Shaw did, either."

There is little any of them—especially Harold—would deny Root these days. Or John, for that matter, though he requests nearly nothing. Decorations and a homemade Christmas meal seemed like such small things for someone willing to die for him to ask for. So, despite the fact that few in their group still celebrated the holiday or believed in any sort of deity, and none of them but John cooked, of course Harold agreed to the plan. No one objected.

Well, that's not quite accurate. Shaw objected, at first, until Root promised her, "plenty of food...among other things," with lewd smile.

"Food?" Shaw said, around an overflowing mouthful of a messy sandwich. "Sold."

Now, beautiful lights hang in nearly every room—a riot of color in the one Root shares with Shaw, tasteful strands of white in his own, more white and a small tree and lit-up Santa Claus for John. Christmas music floats through the apartment, provided by an eclectic playlist supposedly curated by The Machine. A tree stands tall in the living room, its rainbow lights blinking in sync with the rhythm of the music, also courtesy of The Machine. Harold expected complaints. Only the most perfunctory about sore muscles were made.

They all, however, drew the line at the Santa Claus hats or the garish Christmas sweaters The Machine had allegedly bought for them. (His Machine knew better. They were _synthetic_. The day Harold took back his identities was the day he swore off unnatural fibers for good. And his had blinking lights on it. _No_.)

In the here and now, calling the kitchen a mess would be an insult to messes. A reluctantly bedazzled Bear has retreated to John's room, his jingling reindeer antler headband abandoned in the hallway. The poor turkey looks like a boulder of coal on the kitchen island, and the side dishes aren't much better, save for the late-arriving Fusco's unscathed green bean casserole. (Though, if you ask Harold, that particular abomination looks equally inedible.) The smoke detector lies in shattered ruins on the floor, courtesy of one of Shaw's guns, while an obnoxious cover of "Little Drummer Boy" drills into Harold's skull.

And Root and Shaw are joined in a passionate liplock near the open window, utterly unashamed, surrounded by their carnage.

"Least no one called the fire department," Fusco says. "Or the cops."

"Indeed."

And at least they are alive. Root is still too thin and too pale. John is in terrible shape, weak as a kitten, in a wheelchair—possibly permanently—and not cleared for eating solid foods yet. Harold is in quite a sorry state himself, still nursing his disappointment over Grace's rejection, still sore and exhausted from the final showdown and the roller coaster of losing and getting back his dear friends. Though Fusco has been putting on a brave, everything-is-normal face, pretending to be the healthiest, most normal member of their bunch, his stab wounds are taking a toll on him. Shaw is in the peak of physical health once again, but the mark Samaritan has left on her is just as substantial as everyone else's. Even Bear is unwell, distressed in a way that no amount of playdates with old canine friends seems to help.

They've been through so much, and they are healing. A messy kitchen and a ruined meal seem insignificant in comparison to all of that.

"I'm in deep enough hot water thanks to Mr. Fake Detective in there," Fusco continues, pointing at his chest, then gesturing toward John's room. "Explaining why I'm with all you weirdos?" He pauses. "But, c'mon, you'd think two scary-smart people could figure out how to work a damn oven timer, though. Jeez. I know Coco Puffs got herself a little distracted, but what the hell's your excuse? I mean, you're the bird guy and all..."

Harold bristles. "I wasn't consulted in that part of the preparations." Because he'd been lying down for most of the day, feeling dreadful, until the smoke alarm and the stench of burning food ripped him from his bed. Ever since he was shot, bouncing back from, well, _everything_ has been much, much harder. His body never fails to remind him of just how close he came to dying, nor of how much the abdominal muscles are involved in important everyday activities—like breathing. Or of how old he is. Dear god, he feels so _old_ these days. "I assisted with some of the efforts early on, then left them to their own devices."

"Bad move, buddy. But, hey, good thing we live in New York, though, huh? Even on Christmas, one little phone call, and—"

The doorbell interrupts him. Perfect timing. Harold quirks his lips—he loves a good moment of accidental drama. "And my contingency plan goes into effect. Turkey dinner with all of the trimmings, from one of my favorite places, and a nice ham and a beef roast, in case someone doesn't care for turkey." It's likely far too much food, even with Shaw's bottomless stomach and an equally ravenous teenage boy for Fusco to take leftovers home to, but that's why man invented freezers.

"Dessert?"

Harold scoffs. "Do you take me for a man who would neglect the most important part of a meal?" He even asked The Machine for input on Fusco's favorite, learning Fusco is a fellow ice cream aficionado—especially atop a nice, warm slice of pie. He'll have lots of pies to choose from. "Yes, they're bringing dessert."

At Fusco's startled, open-mouthed stare, Harold says, "What? Our usual chef is out of commission at the moment and none of us cook. Did you really think I wouldn't prepare for a possible disaster?"

"Nah, I just..." Fusco chuckles and shakes his head, and claps Harold lightly on the shoulder. "Never change, Glasses. Never change."

While Fusco fetches Shaw and goes to get the food, Shaw pausing to retrieve Bear's antlers and jam the headband into a sputtering Fusco's hair along the way, Harold heads for the couch and sinks down with a weary sigh, cradling his sore side. He does manage a spare bit of energy to call out, "Do let Ms. Shaw do the bulk of the heavy lifting, Detective," before the pair makes it out the door.

"Yeah, Lionel, let me do the work," Shaw says, her tone outwardly more teasing sibling than concerned friend, and the two of them start bickering and poking fun at each other until the heavy door shuts behind them.

Harold smiles to himself, but he lacks the energy to maintain it for long. His hint of an appetite has already fled, and the coughing and mayhem have drained him thoroughly. Another nap seems like a much more appealing option than dinner. He doesn't resist the urge to close his eyes, and as the music shifts to a gentle piano cover of "Silent Night," he starts to drift off.

Then, someone sits down next to him, and he forces his heavy eyes back open just as Root drops her head on his shoulder. "Sorry about your kitchen, Harry," she says, soft and sincere.

"It's only a kitchen." Harold wraps an arm around her—giving physical affection still feels somewhat foreign to him after all the years he went without, but it always seems to make her happy. She lets out a contented sigh, and he strokes her arm, allowing her to settle in next to him, ignoring the unpleasant scratchy texture of sparkling green yarn beneath his palm. "It can be cleaned, repaired..."

"And what matters is who you fill it with," John says. Harold can't help smiling as John wheels down the hall, Bear trotting along beside him. His enthusiasm is not even diminished by the red and green travesty John's wearing, with its ugly rhinestone-covered snowman on the front and the blinking Christmas lights around the collar—oh, it's dreadful. Trust John to embrace something ridiculous. But seeing John out of bed—seeing him _alive_ , goodness. It still makes Harold's stomach swoop and gives him palpitations, especially when John gives him a smile in return.

"You're wearing it!" Root says, as John makes his way over. John's smile widens. "I'd say it looks good on you, but..."

"Yeah, I didn't think looking good was the point." John sets his IV bag on the nearby end table, then slowly heaves himself out of the wheelchair and onto the couch, biting back groans as he sinks down next to Harold.

"Sameen's gonna kill you if you bust any of your stitches," Root says, pleasantly. "I might help."

"I'd like to see you try," John shoots back, equally amiable, then lets out a loud breath, wrapping an arm around his torso and pressing a hand to his chest. "Whoo. That's not fun."

Sitting next to John, Bear whines with concern and drops his head on John's lap.

"But you are getting better at it." Harold lets go of his abdomen and scratches Bear's head, just a little, before turning his attention to John. He gives John's knee a light pat, then lets his hand lie upon John's thigh, relishing the pleasant warmth of life radiating through John's sweatpants. John is _alive_. How incredible. "You're not supposed to be getting out of bed on your own, though...but when have you ever listened to a doctor's orders?"

"When I was a kid, maybe?" John places his hand over Harold's, and Harold's eyes are drawn to the bruise on the back, where one of his previous IVs once took up residence. It is starting to fade, turning a mottled yellow-green, and, as has been happening more and more often lately, Harold is struck by the urge to kiss it better. Later, perhaps?

Not much later. He's put off sharing his feelings with John for far too long, for far too many reasons, and almost lost his chance. Even if John doesn't return his love, it's not likely John will leave over it. Their bond is so much deeper than that—the man tried to sacrifice his life to save him, for goodness' sake. What does he have to fear here, in this moment?

John recaptures Harold's attention by wrapping his fingers around Harold's and speaking again, oblivious to Harold's inner turmoil. "Probably not even then, though," he says, "now that I think about it. Hasn't killed me yet."

Neither have bullets, knives, cruise missiles—oh, Harold does not want to think about that. "Well, you might want to be careful this time," Harold says. "As Root said, I don't think Ms. Shaw will be pleased if you ruin all of your surgeons' hard work." Not to mention what it would do to Harold if something else happened to John, or to any of them. Getting them back, then losing them again—it might break him.

"And none of us can pick you up off the floor but her, you big lug," Root adds. "She'll probably leave you there on purpose."

John chuckles, and he squeezes Harold's hand. "I'll be careful," he says, softly, as though reading the real meaning behind Harold's words, then laces their fingers together. Harold's heart flutters with something that might be hope, and he chances leaning against John. In return, John lets his head rest against Harold's. "I promise."

Another song begins, and it takes a moment for Harold to place it—a piano cover of that Christmas song of Mariah Carey's, "All I Want for Christmas Is You." He rolls his eyes and shoots a glare at the star atop the tree, where a hidden camera stares out at the room. Its lights blink steadily on, unrepentant.

"She's trying to tell you something, Harry," Root whispers. "You should listen."

Seamlessly, the music turns to a slow, acoustic version with vocals. Damn Machine. Harold mouths, _We will discuss this later,_ at the camera. The song continues to play.

But if The Machine is being this overt in her matchmaking, maybe—just maybe—there is no need to fear confessing. He decides to test his hypothesis, bringing John's hand to his lips and kissing the bruise, his heart rising into his throat as the hand ascends toward his mouth.

John makes a small, happy sound, deep in his chest, and presses a kiss to Harold's temple, then lets his head rest against Harold's again.

Ah. So that's that taken care of, then. Excellent. Harold lets their joined hands fall back to his lap, his pounding heart settling back into its rightful place again as well, and he relaxes.

Root lets out another happy sigh, and says, "This is really nice." She pauses, and with amused disgust, adds, "Except for the smell."

"Yes," Harold says. It _is_ nice. Everyone they have left is present, they're all recovering, and the world around them is healing as well. They are all safe, for now, until the next number comes. They are all loved, including him, despite all his flaws and failures. After everything, he couldn't have asked for a better Christmas. His body might be aching and tired, but his battered old heart feels full and light. For the first time in far too long, Harold is—he hesitates to even think the word—happy. "Yes, it is."

"Just...maybe don't get distracted by Shaw's ass next time you're trying to cook," John suggests.

Root laughs, and, far too gleefully, says, "Only if you won't get distracted by Harry's."

Harold's cheeks go hot. Before he can protest that his posterior is not nearly impressive enough for that to be a concern, however, John laughs, and squeezes Harold's hand again. "No promises."

The last of Harold's tension leaves him, and he settles in fully, careful to lean only the tiniest bit on John. A curious, contradictory mixture of elation and bone-deep weariness has taken hold of him—and he suspects that the latter will win out. Perhaps he'd be better off taking himself to bed.

An unexpected yawn makes his decision for him. Yes, now that he's thought of it, sleep does sound like a good decision. "I'm afraid that I most likely won't be joining tonight's meal," he tells Root. "I'm quite tired, and I have no appetite at all."

"That's okay, Harry," she says. "We're all here. That's what matters."

Indeed it is. They've all made it—not unscathed, no, but they've made it out alive. They're all together. Their future as a team, as a _family_ is bright. A lingering bad smell and two tired souls sleeping won't ruin that.

She kisses his cheek sweetly, and adds, "Thank you for saving the day today."

"You're welcome," he says, hugging Root gingerly, before letting her go and turning to John, ignoring the pain it sends through his back and his healing abdomen. "Since neither one of us is eating, would you care to join me for a nice Christmas nap?" At John's wicked smile, he adds, " _Just_ a nap. Neither of us is capable of... _that_ at the moment."

John's smile widens for a moment, then softens. "Yeah," he replies. "I'd like that."

"You boys are so sweet." Root pats Harold's shoulder, and gets to her feet, not quite managing to hide the pain she's still in. The strain shows in her voice as she adds, "She tells me that Lionel and Sameen are on their way back upstairs, and Sameen won't be happy to see your new boyfriend out of his bed. Better get moving."

Harold exchanges a look with John, both of them raising their eyebrows in an unspoken question. _Time to get out of here? Yes._ "Then I suppose we'd better get going. Enjoy your dinner, Ms. G—" She gives him a chiding but amused look. "Root. Merry Christmas, Root." He heaves himself up off the sofa, biting back a groan at the burn of pain across his wounds, and smooths down his clothes just for an excuse to soothe his angry incisions.

Then, he offers John a hand. It's purely symbolic—he cannot help John stand without the both of them regretting it—but John takes it anyway. Harold marvels at the way they fit together, at the gentle clasp of John's long fingers, the warm security of John's hand wrapped around his. They should have held hands years ago, should have done so many things years ago.

Now they will. And they will start with a nap. How boring. How perfect. He's looking forward to it.

**Author's Note:**

> Two years ago on Christmas, I finished POI for the first time. While I do _not_ recommend watching Return 0 on Christmas, I don't regret taking a peek at fic a few weeks before finishing, writing a fic of my own a few months later, and eventually wandering into this fandom fully. Everyone's been so great to me. Thank you! 💖
> 
> Merry Christmas to all who celebrate, have a lovely rest of the year for everyone who doesn't, and I'm looking forward to writing more fic for you wonderful people in the coming year! 💖


End file.
